Miserable Days
by Maya Beebop
Summary: Nothing to keep him company but a bottle of whiskey and his empty crypt, Spike falls into his musing about the confusing whirlwind his existance has become.  One-shot


Spike took a long swig off his lukewarm drink and collapsed into the cracked leather, under-stuffed easy chair. A cloud of dust rose off the seat and he coughed, sneezing a bit as the microscopic particles tickled his nostrils.

Ah, this was gonna be another one of those lonely days. He was stuck in his crypt because of the blasted sun and its nasty habit of rising every morning, with absolutely nothing to do and no one to keep him company him but a half-empty bottle of hard liquor. He longed for something to happen that could shake up the monotony of un-life in Sunnydale. Death sucked for him. Every night it was either him staking newborn vamps in a cemetery or drowning his sorrows in a bar. And the only literal and proverbial ray of sunlight in his life was the Slayer. She was the poisoned apple; he knew it was stupid to fall in love with one of them. But it felt so _good_, better than it ever felt to kill one.

He remembered the rush it gave him to slay a slayer, to turn the blade on them and let them feel the pain his kind was always being dealt at their hands. But to hold one in his arms? A hundred times over the rush; it left his adrenaline far behind and gave way to…bliss? Euphoria? It seemed the English language didn't have a word to describe how it really felt to kiss her, to hold her close and feel warm for once in his centuries. Dru had never been warm; how could she be? She was dead, like him. No more body heat, no more steamy nights. It was like bedding a pliable block of marble. Not a bad thing; it had never been! But there was something comforting in having a living, breathing mortal next to you. Something he could have never gotten from Drusilla _or_ Harmony.

Ah, damn it all, now he was going nostalgic. The _last_ thing he wanted to do was end up falling asleep to the lullaby of alcohol and old memories. He shook his head and stood up, leaning against the stone wall while taking another swig. The splash of fiery liquid against his throat put into maddening perspective how often he drank now. The bar's supply of blood was getting suspiciously below par. Spike mused that perhaps instead of bleeding real humans, they were beginning to mix demon blood in with the real stuff to keep costs down. If things didn't get better, he'd be breaking into the ER's blood bank before long, and he didn't want to have the Slayer up his ass about that. She was far enough up there already just because he had a pair of fangs and a lovesick heart.

_Love's bitch_…he thought, disgusted with himself. That's all he was now. Not the wild, impulsive vampire he used to be. Just some little puppy on an electronic leash in his head, who contemplated stealing blood from a hospital because he couldn't get his own from mortals or even a soddy bar. A bloody lapdog, who practically asked "How high?" whenever Buffy or any of her little "Scoobies" told him to jump.

Another drink. And the whiskey sloshed in the bottle, catching a stray beam of sunlight and tinting it bronze, sending the colors sprayed over the wall in an earthy spectrum, painting an illuminated rainbow over the cement. He pulled his hand away from the light in a reflexive manner, shattering the rainbow and banishing the colors in an instant.

"Damn bloody sun," he cursed. If only…if only a cloud would appear and cover its beams for just a few _minutes_ even…he could leave this place. He could walk outside in the daytime and he would go over to the Summers house and Buffy would get _hers_. Take her completely by surprise, he would. And then who'd be love's bitch, eh? He'd show her he could get the upper hand just by catching her off-guard.

And he'd kill her. He'd kill this slayer, just like the other two, damn it. He'd tear her heart out and burn it to ashes. He'd take the blackened remains and spit on them and scatter them over the Hellmouth; that's what he'd do. She deserved to have her corpse chopped into pieces and fed to the most primitive and weakest of demons. And her friends? Killed or maimed and just basically banished from the town by the armies of the night. There was no room for the good guys in a place like this. Sunnydale should belong to the bogeymen in the shadows.

But this was crazy-talk; this was the whiskey talking in his head. This was everything Dru or the real Angel ever thought. Just a twisted carousel of messed-up thoughts in his mind. And through it all, he could hear Drusilla's voice rising over the din.

_They think you're not a bad dog, Spike, but you are…_

He was a bad dog. He was a _mad_ dog. Everything in his head was messed up now because of that damned soul. What used to be black and white about his life was now a maddening swirl of gray, and it was driving him crazier. And the only way to stop the nutty ramblings in his mind was the burn of alcohol in his gut. It was just a circle; because he was insane he drank, and because he drank he was insane.

_Gotta stop thinking about that. Gotta stop thinking of Dru and I've gotta_ "Stop talking to myself!"

He realized he was standing now, the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the concrete. No matter; there had been nothing left in it anyway. But the glass would be there later on to catch the glimmers of light and turn them into small rainbows…

"Spike?"

The sound startled him. Oh god, not now. He didn't need this now. Not after he'd just gotten completely drunk and souled and mnemonic. He did _not_ need Buffy to see him like this, even if he didn't care what she thought about him anymore.

"Go away," he growled, retreating to the shadows.

"I'm not going anywhere and you damn well can't make me," she returned, walking into the center of the room and glaring at him. "If you can invade my home like you always do, I have every right to be here."

"Just _go_. I don't need this now."

"Well that's too bad. Because-…" She trailed away and looked down to her feet, sort of helplessly.

He recognized the expression and knew instantly that something was very, very wrong. Of all the people she'd ask help from, he was quite low on the list, he knew. She must have already exhausted her supply of "Scoobies", and the librarian probably sent her over to get him as backup.

"What is it?" he asked, remaining in the darkness. God, was his nose running? He sniffled quickly and wiped his reddening eyes. Maybe he could hide how messed up he was.

"Dawn's pulled another 'Houdini', as I remember you putting it so eloquently in the past. I've got the gang out looking for her, but they're having trouble." She looked to the door and winced a bit. Jesus, it was really killing her to ask him for anything!

"And you think I can help while the sun is shining?" he asked casually.

"Well, you've got the sewers. Can't you drop by Willie's or anything?"

"Not that I'm not worried about the little bit, but I'm in no condition to go beating up around town looking for a teenager who's probably over at a friend's house," he commented, his voice cracking a bit from his clogged throat. He coughed a bit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

A look of pure horror flashed across Buffy's face. "Oh my god! That's exactly where she is! She…she spent the night at Lynn's, and I completely forgot! Oh god, I'm losing my mind!" she gasped, putting a hand to her forehead.

Spike smirked. "Well then you're in good company, love. Wanna go call off the search brigade?"

"Yeah…um, sorry. I've just been…so _busy_ lately, and I forgot to even write myself a note. I _knew_ I'd forget! Ugh…" Buffy turned to the door and reached for the knob, then stopped herself. She turned around and gave him a face of stone.

"I still can't stand your guts and don't want you near anyone I know. But I can't help it if you keep hanging around."

"Understand that saying this changes _nothing_ between us; but…thanks. You keep trying to help and I keep trying to push you away, but you were right. You're helpful when you want to be."

He laughed in his throat. "I'm just the bloke in the wings now, Buffy. I'm the bloody stage crew; helping out while you all stand in the spotlight. But maybe that's what's best for everyone."

"You're not the stage crew, Spike. You're…" She struggled to find the right words.

"The antagonist that gets his name listed at the end of the credits. Yeah, yeah. You better go call off the gang, and get out of here before I stop being articulate. My head's starting to hurt again."

Her eyes widened and she went to leave. As the door closed and the sunlight disappeared, Spike collapsed, leaning against the dark wall and sighing. He closed his eyes and groaned.

Just another one of those miserable days…


End file.
